by Robert Merle
He sighed again. “Tomorrow, my son”—and here he turned to face me, his eyebrows knitted in concern, and pierced me suddenly with his little black eyes—“I will hear your confession.”
Oh, the treacherous scoundrel! He was trying to catch me out! His suspicions had not abated, as he had claimed, the hypocrite! He still doubted my word, and, knowing how much the Huguenots abhorred auricular confession, he had decided to set a trap for me.
“My dear Brother Antoine,” I replied, displaying the most innocent expression I could manage, despite my animosity, “I cannot yet tell whether my night will be free of sin or not, but count on me to call on your good offices to wash me of my sins.”
What a strange method, I thought to myself. They sin, they confess, they start all over again. But I had nary a chance to pursue this line of thought. The Baron de Caudebec suddenly gave a great shout, and, grasping at his throat, rose straight up from his chair, crying that he was dying from an enormous fish bone that was stuck in his windpipe, and that someone must straightaway go to find a barber. “Now, ’sblood! Right away! God’s passion!” If not, he’d kill everyone in this house of the Devil: cook, kitchen boys, sauciers, serving girls and even the innkeeper herself!
Jumping to my feet, I urged him to remain calm. I managed to convince him that, since it was Sunday, the time it would take to get a barber here would mean hours of suffering, but that if he would take his seat, open his mouth, and show a bit of resolve, I would do what I could. Amazingly, he consented to my request. I had an oil lamp brought so that I could look into his mouth—a cavernous stink hole that I’ll never forget—and could see that there was indeed a fish bone stuck in his throat just beyond his uvula. I quickly whittled two wooden sticks into long spatulas, and using them together as a pincer, succeeded in extracting the tiny cause of this great calamity.
Caudebec could hardly believe his senses when, after consuming an entire pitcher of wine, he realized he no longer felt the pain in his gullet.
“’Sblood!” he cried, leaping to his feet. “It’s a miracle! Thanks be to the Holy Virgin Mary! And you,” he continued, bestowing on me such a powerful embrace that I thought he would suffocate me, “you, my learned young friend, I will henceforth call you my true son, for my son by blood, compared with you, is nothing but a nincompoop who doesn’t know his right hand from his left, who can hardly read, writes worse than I do, and thinks only of fox hunting and drinking and feasting, oppressing his labourers and bedding his serving girls. The plague take this ignoramus! He would have let his father die in agony. Monsieur de Siorac! The Virgin and all the saints brought you to me. God set you on this stool to save a poor sinner! My little interpreter, my gracious cousin, my eternal and immutable friend, what can I offer you in return for the immense gift you have bestowed on the barony of Caudebec? Ask and it shall be yours!”
And, just to prove that a Norman baron can bluster every bit as well as a man of the langue d’oc, he continued: “Speak up! What would you like? My purse? My horse? My daughter?”
“Hold, Monsieur! Your daughter for a fish bone?”
“My daughter? But I don’t have a daughter!” he cried, laughing as much at himself as at me in his Norman way, which was less heavy-handed than simply boorish.
“Well, Monsieur,” I replied, “since we’re talking about girls…” and I leant forward and whispered a few words in his enormous ear.
“You scoundrel!” he laughed. “You lewd fellow! So that’s what you want! But it’s little enough. Though,” he continued as if reconsidering, “I was thinking of having the hussy myself… But, so be it!” he went on with an air of immense generosity. “I’ll leave her to you, my friend, since such is your pleasure.” He seemed quite relieved, I thought, to have got off so cheaply—gifts not being his strong point, as I had already guessed.
At this point the page returned with my doublet, which I donned before taking my leave of the Baron de Caudebec, Brother Antoine and their pious assembly, who were but halfway done with their festivities, judging by the way they fell on the meats that were arriving periodically from the kitchens. As I started up the staircase, however, I paused to call the page.
“Hey, Rouen! Come over here!”
“At your service, Monsieur,” he said, his green eyes averted in a way that suggested he was at bit uneasy.
“Rouen, you owe me four sols for cleaning my doublet.”
“Four sols, Monsieur?”
“Exactly. They were in my pocket.”
“Well then, they must have fallen out!” he retorted, lowering his eyes as if to search for them.
“Just what I was thinking. They must have fallen from my pocket into yours.”
“Nay, Monsieur!” he countered—but without raising his voice. “As I am an honest lad!”
“For shame, Rouen, you swear so easily? What if I discussed my problem with your master?”
“He would whip me like green rye.”
“So, to avoid this unpleasantness, Rouen, let’s make a little deal. If by chance you find these four sols on the floor, they’ll be yours by finder’s rights. And if you hear Brother Antoine talking about me to the baron, you’ll repeat every word.”
“It’s a deal! I’ll shake on that, my master!” cried Rouen, smiling from ear to ear. I smiled back at him and, placing my hand on his head, gave his pointy red hair a rub that would have mussed it had it ever been combed.
After this I returned to my room, delighted with the way I’d fooled Brother Antoine, having behaved in every respect the way my father would have done, for my father always said that we owe the truth only to our friends and to our enemies ruses and guile, often comparing our Huguenots to the Israelites in the Bible as an oppressed people living among the Gentiles.
My beloved Samson had neither disrobed nor gone to bed, fearing the arrival of the two foreigners whom the innkeeper had assigned to our quarters. My own thought—which I was careful not to share with him since he was so innocent—was that he would have done better not to insist on male bedfellows since he was so handsome that he might have attracted the attentions of someone so inclined, should such a one be among our new neighbours.
I discovered Samson in deep reverie, sitting, spiteful and taciturn, on his stool, quite distressed by my long absence. Miroul was sitting opposite, not daring to open his mouth and content from time to time to play a few chords on his viol to console his master and, of course, for the pure pleasure of the music.
Samson became very upset when I had explained my plan that we should join company with these Norman pilgrims as far as Montpellier because they were so large and heavily armed a group that no bandits would dare cross swords with them.
“What?” he wailed. “Make common cause with these papists? Wear a mask? Hear Mass with them? Maybe even go to confession?”
I rose to my full height, hands on hips. “My dear brother,” I answered coolly, “you’ve no right to scold me.”
He was so shaken by my tone that tears came to his eyes. Such was the great love that, like a stream of red blood, flowed from one to the other. For my part, I couldn’t bear that he should suffer the least bit on my account, and in a burst of feeling I ran to him, hugged him to me and kissed him on both cheeks. Seeing this, Miroul plucked on his viol.
“Samson,” I explained, sitting him down beside me, “remember my father’s wisdom in assigning you the management of our purse, and me the leadership of our little band—on condition I listen to Miroul, who, better than anyone, knows the ways of the vandals on the highways.”
At this, Miroul, far from plucking his viol, lowered his head sadly, for he had watched his entire family have their throats cut by a band of these brigands on a highway south of Sarlat and would have suffered the same fate had he not had the presence of mind to bury himself in the hay in the barn.
“But still,” argued Samson, “how can we break bread with these bloodthirsty papists who have sent so many of our people to the scaffold?”
“Bl
oodthirsty they were,” I concurred, “and might become so again. But for the moment, peace has been declared between our two religions. Besides, these Normans are well-meaning folk despite their idolatry. Let me try to work this out, gentle brother.”
“The problem is,” said Samson, opening his big azure eyes and looking at me with such an honest demeanour that my heart swelled with affection for him, “I can’t feign anything and you know it!”
“I do know it,” I agreed, putting my arm around his shoulder, “so I’ll have to pretend for both of us. As for you, Samson, all you have to do is remain mute as though you had been laid low with a terrible fever. Miroul will watch over you, and answer any questions they ask by plucking his viol. How say you, Miroul?”
“I find I think that you’re right, my master,” he replied. “There is certainly less danger for us among these papists than reduced to our own resources on the highways.”
“But what will happen if we’re found out?” Samson persisted.
“Nothing, I’d wager. The baron is a crude but not a cruel man.”
A knock on the door interrupted our discussion and Miroul went to open it and found Franchou on our threshold, holding a heavy tray. “My mistress,” said Franchou, her shining eyes locking on mine as she entered, “didn’t know where to put you since our dining hall is entirely occupied by that crowd of pilgrims from the north.”
“But this will do quite handsomely!” I answered. In helping Franchou bring in and lay the tray on a small table near the window, I managed to keep my back to Samson, although with the daylight waning and the oil paper letting in but little light this position was less an advantage for supping than for the exchange of looks we passed between us.
“Wench,” I said, not wanting to name her in front of my brother, “I’m going to hurry my supper. As soon as you have finished your day’s work, come and tell me whether the Baron de Caudebec needs my interpreting.”
She understood my meaning, and her brilliant, lively black eyes told me quite clearly it was so. “At your service, my noble lord,” she replied, bowing low—though her look was much less subservient than her curtsey.
The meats were succulent, but though I ate with a hearty appetite, my thoughts were elsewhere: I was listening to the sounds in the corridor outside, where I could hear the heavy and stumbling footfalls of the pilgrims heading for bed. Which my gentle brother did as well as soon as he’d downed his goblet of wine, perching, fully clothed, on the extreme edge of the bed in order to leave room for our guests.
“Miroul,” I whispered, “when our bedfellows arrive—and let’s pray they’re neither too broad-shouldered or two pot-bellied—tell them to be quiet so as not to wake Samson.”
“I’ll take care of it, Monsieur,” said Miroul, and I have no idea how he managed it, but at times when he was kidding, and didn’t want to say or show it openly, his blue eye remained cold while his brown eye sparkled.
Someone scratched like a mouse at the door, and, without waiting for an answer, opened it. “Monsieur,” said Franchou, her beautiful round cheeks aglow as she lied, “the baron is calling for you to interpret for him!”
I leapt to my feet and hissed to Miroul, “I’m off! Take good care of my brother!”
“I wish you a happy translation tonight, Monsieur,” replied Miroul, as serious as a bishop on his cathedra, plucking two chords on his sweet viol.
It was a different tune altogether the next morning, when, at the break of day, I hauled up water from the well in the courtyard to begin my ablutions—a habit or a folly, I know not which, that I got from my father, who, in his early years as a student of medicine in Montpellier, and a zealous disciple of Hippocrates, claimed that water and our bodies have a natural affinity, the first helping the second to maintain its health. It would be a great thing, if you’ll permit me to argue my father’s case, if the use of this liquid element were more widespread in this century—and in this kingdom—than it in fact is, even among the nobility. For I saw in my twenties, while at the court of Charles IX, many well-to-do and pretty women spend an infinite amount of time primping, but bathing? Not in the least. And isn’t it a great pity that these feminine bodies, so suave and polished, remain, hidden beneath the silks and finery, as dirty as a day-labourer, who at least has the excuse of working the soil from dawn to dusk? Alas, how put off we are when we have sensitive noses and quickly detect the filth beneath the perfumes that these beauties spray on themselves!
At Mespech, my older brother François scorned my domestic dalliances, but I don’t share his opinions on this matter. As for me, I prefer to say, “Long live Franchou, if Franchou bathes in pure water!” And the hell with the princess with her royal blood (whom I will not name) who dared to boast at court of never having washed her hands in a week! And it wasn’t just her hands! I leave you to imagine the rest.
So I was spraying myself with cold water, however heretical such toiletries may have been—and may my sins be washed away by the Lord’s grace as quickly on Judgement Day as the sweat and humours of the previous night—when who should appear in her yellow bodice, doing her best to negotiate the uneven paving stones of the courtyard, but our beautiful hostess. Her aspect was clearly not the least bit welcoming; quite the contrary, she looked very unhappy and spiteful, her eyebrows in a deep furrow, her eyes piercing me like daggers.
“Hallo!” she said with some bitterness, her hands on her hips. “Here’s our handsome stallion all busy with grooming himself after his night’s gallop!”
And, since I couldn’t manage to say a word, so embarrassed was I, she added scornfully, “Your hocks seem to me to be sagging a bit.”
“Not in the least!” I replied, stung and rising to my feet. “I’m always at your service, my good woman!”
“Ha! You scoundrel!” she cried. “Not a bit of it! You turned a cold shoulder last night to my feed and were whinnying after other oats!”
I decided to opt for bravado since repentance was out of the question. “My sweet hostess, to tell you the truth, I was intending to take my feed in two different mangers. Scarcely, however, was I set up comfortably at one than they slipped my halter on.”
“If this halter, was, as I believe, two feeble arms, you could easily have broken free! You’re a sweet talker but I no longer trust your palaver. You start out on one horse and end with another.”
“But, my good woman,” I protested, “the Two Angels inn is on the way to Montpellier and also on the way back to my home in the Sarlat region. We’ll have many chances to see each other again.”
“Enough of these empty promises! I don’t eat reheated meat,” she snarled, now wholly irritated with me. And, turning on her heels, she threw over her shoulder, “Can you imagine the conceited fop who’d believe I’d wait for him?”
The words “conceited fop” really stung, though I had to admit that my Gascon jokes about the two mangers deserved no less.
“Well then,” I replied stiffly, “since there can be no more question of friendship between us, please prepare my bill of fare so I can be on my way.”
“I’ve already added up your bill,” she said, spinning around to face me with an air of vengeful triumph that set me to thinking. “Three meals at eight sols each, that’s twenty-four sols. Six sols for the room since you had to share the bed. Twelve sols for your four horses. Plus eighteen sols for the wench you enjoyed last night.”
I looked at her, speechless. Sweat suddenly started to trickle down my back at the idea I’d have to explain this last exorbitant expense to Samson, who had the entire responsibility for disbursements from our small treasury.
“What?” I gasped. “Pay for favours that were freely offered?”
“Depends on who offers them,” she countered.
“’Sblood! as our baron would say! I’m supposed to cough up for a wench who’s completely mad about me?”
“You misunderstand, Monsieur,” replied my hostess, colder than a nun’s feet on a chapel floor. “You’re not paying f
or the wench, you’re charged for having reserved her services for an entire night, to my great detriment, since she was unavailable for more general services.”
“Where am I then?” I cried, standing to my full height. “In a brothel?”
“Absolutely not!” said my hostess, assuming her most authoritative posture. “You’re a guest in a good, respectable, Christian establishment where all of our travellers’ needs are fully attended to.”
“Their Christian needs!” I laughed.
But I fell silent with the awful realization of just how bad this sounded, coming from me. Moreover, the innkeeper maintained such a stony glare that I had not the heart to continue in this vein. So I decided to adopt a completely different approach, and spoke in more honeyed tones, but this was no less in vain. She was not to be swayed in the least, and, ultimately, I realized that to soothe her I’d have to take an entirely different tack.
The how and what of this arrangement I will leave entirely to the reader’s imagination, begging him not to judge me too severely for being a fledgling so recently cast out of his nest in Mespech that I couldn’t help getting tied up in the skirts of both of these beauties. It’s really not in my nature to be so irresponsible. And, in the end, it was the thought of offending my dear Samson, both in his morals and in the management of our purse, that led me to the course of action I chose.
Not that I mean to complain. It wasn’t, after all, such a great sacrifice, despite my initial reluctance. To tell the truth, my hostess, even after the fatigue and stress of her evening, was well worth the bedding. My gods, what a furnace! And I can reminisce on our time together with some pride at being the bellows that set that fire burning. “Oh, what a pity,” I mused as I crept back into our room (where Samson was still asleep, in the company of two fat monks), “that these delights, so healthy for our bodies and our spirits, should be, when enjoyed outside of marriage, such guilty pleasures in the eyes of God.” But, alas, such is the way all of this is taught us. And it must be true since both of the religions of our country—both Catholic and reformed—are so fully in agreement on this matter.
